Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(43)

I mean, really. Chill!

“No one ever goes to a party on time. It’s ruder to do that than to be fifteen minutes late, believe me.” He looked me up and down. “You look nice,” he said. “Different . . .”

I did not appreciate this crass attempt to change the subject. “Shall we go?” I said, quite curtly. He ambled along beside me, smoking as usual.

“Eleanor,” he said, “honestly, don’t stress about it. When people say seven o’clock, they mean, like, seven thirty, earliest. We’ll probably be the first people there!”

I was thrown by this.

“But why?” I said. “Why on earth would you state one time whilst meaning something completely different, and how are people supposed to know?”

Raymond extinguished his cigarette and dropped it into the gutter. He put his head on one side, considering.

“I don’t know how you know, now I come to think of it,” he said. “You just do.” He thought some more. “It’s like, you know when you invite people over, and you say come at eight, it’s always a nightmare if some . . . if a person actually arrives at eight, because you’re not ready, you haven’t had time to tidy up, take the rubbish out or whatever? It feels quite . . . passive aggressive, almost, if someone actually arrives on time or—oh God—early?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “If I were to invite people to attend at eight, then I’d be ready for them at eight. It’s sloppy time management otherwise.”

Raymond shrugged. He had made no effort whatsoever to dress smartly for the party, sporting his usual uniform of training shoes (green ones) and a T-shirt. This one said Carcetti for Mayor. Unfathomable. He was wearing a denim jacket, paler than his denim trousers. I hadn’t considered that a suit could be fashioned from denim, but there it was.

Laura’s house was at the end of a neat cul-de-sac of small, modern houses. There were several cars in the driveway. We approached the front door and I noticed that she had red geraniums in window boxes. I find geraniums somewhat unsettling; that rich, sticky scent when you brush against them, a brackish, vegetable smell that’s the opposite of floral.

Raymond rang the doorbell—the chime played the opening chords to Beethoven’s Third Symphony. A very small boy, his face smeared with, one hoped, chocolate, answered and stared at us. I stared back at him. Raymond stepped forward.

“All right, mate?” he said. “We’re here to see your granddad.”

The boy continued staring at us, somewhat unenthusiastically. “I’m wearing new shoes,” he stated, apropos of nothing. At that moment, Laura appeared behind him in the hallway.

“Auntie Laura,” he said, not turning round, and sounding distinctly unimpressed, “it’s more people for the party.”

“I see that, Tyler,” she said. “Why don’t you go and find your brother, see if you can blow up some more balloons for us?” He nodded and ran off, his little feet thumping on the stairs.

“Come in,” she said, smiling at Raymond. “Dad’ll be pleased to see you.” She didn’t smile at me, which is the normal state of affairs in most encounters I have with other people.

We entered, Raymond wiping his feet elaborately on the doormat. I copied him. It was truly an unforeseen day when I would look to Raymond for social guidance.

He handed over the flowers and the clinking bag, and Laura looked pleased. I realized that, despite her entreaty at the hospital, I ought to have brought something to hand over too. I was going to explain that she had told us not to, and I had simply done her the courtesy of respecting her wishes, but before I could speak, Raymond blurted out, “These are from Eleanor and me.”

She peered into the carrier bag—I fervently hoped it wasn’t Haribo and Pringles again—and thanked us both. I nodded in acknowledgment.

She showed us into the living room, where Sammy and his family were seated. Banal pop music was playing softly, and a low table was covered with little bowls of beige snacks. Laura was wearing a dress, wrapped around her like black bandages, and teetered in heels with a two-inch platform. Her blond hair was—I grappled for the correct terms—both tall and fat, and tumbled well past her shoulders in glossy waves. Even Bobbi Brown might have thought the amount of makeup she was wearing de trop. Raymond’s mouth hung slightly open, just wide enough to post a letter through, and he seemed somewhat dazed. Laura appeared entirely indifferent to his response.

“Raymond! Eleanor!” Sammy shouted, waving from deep within an enormous velvet armchair. “Laura, get them both a drink, would you? We’re on the Prosecco,” he said, confidentially.

“No more for you, Dad,” his elder son said. “Not with those painkillers.”

“Och, come on, son—you only live once!” Sammy said brightly. “After all, there’s worse ways to go, eh, Eleanor?”

I nodded. He was, of course, absolutely right. I should know.

Laura appeared with two flutes of urine-colored fizzy liquid—much to my surprise, I drank mine down in three gulps. It was dry and biscuity, and extremely delicious. I wondered if it was expensive, and whether it might in due course come to replace vodka as my beverage of choice. Laura noticed, and topped up my glass.

“You’re like me—I only drink bubbles,” she said approvingly.